


To Catch a Knitter

by kijilinn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Class Differences, Disguise, F/M, Fluff, Horses, Knitting, Poverty, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8387626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kijilinn/pseuds/kijilinn
Summary: King Geoffrey is ready to retire. But who wants to retire alone?





	1. Chapter 1

“Please, sir, at least take one of the guards.”

“Antony, I really don’t need a guard. I’m not going far.” The king looked at himself in the mirror. “Yeah, that’s not going to work.” He took off the robe he had hoped would hide his well-trimmed hair and the salt-and-pepper beard that had almost become a trademark. He was still too recognizable. “Besides, I survived the last five attempts on my life and fighting in open combat for three different conflicts. I think I can keep myself safe in my own countryside.” He looked at his valet with an irritated glare.

“Of course, sir,” the valet sighed miserably. “But… what am I to tell the family? What am I to tell the guards? And the ball! There’s still so much planning.” He followed his king around the dressing room, wringing his hands and collecting every discarded article of clothing. 

“Ava and Genevieve have the planning in hand,” he replied shortly. He ran his hands through his dark hair and ruffled it vigorously, destroying the carefully styled and crafted hairstyle until it looked more like he remembered himself looking as a child. The smile that beamed back from the mirror looked younger, too. “It’s going to have to go,” he mused, studying his beard.

“Sir?”

“The beard, Antony. It’s too recognizable. It’ll have to go.” The expression of scandal on the valet’s face made his king laugh. “It’s just hair, Antony. It will grow back.” He paused to study his face in the mirror again. “Hell, it’ll be back by the end of the week.”

“P-perhaps, sir, you might consider dying it instead?” Antony’s face had gone rather pale and the king chuckled, shaking his head. “Please?”

“I didn’t know you were so proud of my beard,” he grinned. “I suppose I’d be less noticeable with a black beard than with this.” He ruffled his fingers through the salt-and-pepper. “I haven’t had a dark beard in rather a long time.” He returned to the closet, rooting through the depths until he found what he was looking for: a pair of worn leggings, a threadbare tunic, and cracked over-the-knee boots. The leggings were tighter than he remembered and the tunic had more room in the shoulders, but he supposed that was the price of getting older. 

“I wish I could understand why you felt this was necessary,” Antony fretted quietly.

King Geoff sighed and leaned back to study his valet. “I’m ready to leave the running of this country to my sons and their exceedingly capable wives. I’m ready to abdicate and spend a few years breeding horses and ignoring messages for advice from Ross and Tristan.” He glanced up from tying the laces on his boots. “But I don’t want to do it alone. That’s all.”

“There are many eligible ladies of the court--”

“Who bore the living shit out of me and have for years.” He tied the knot a little more sharply than he had intended and the old lace broke. “Fuck.” Before he could ask, Antony was handing him a new lace. “Thank you. If I’m going to retire from being king and from the court in general, I don’t want to propose a twilight romance to someone who would rather keep her position in court. I feel like that would be dishonest. They’re hoping for the king’s consort and get the wife of a horse farmer.”

“You’re hardly in your twilight, sir.”

He chuckled and ran a hand over his beard again. “Thank you, Antony.”

 

***

 

Ianthe collected her usual orders from the market: fresh fish, a bundle of spinach, tomatoes, half a dozen eggs, and pint of fresh cream. It should be enough with her own bread to keep her in meals for most of the week. She paid the vendors with her carefully harbored coins and then rushed to the yarn sellers, glee in her eyes. 

They knew she was coming, too; skeins of lambswool and mohair fluffed out of hiding in a rainbow of colors, followed by bright smiles. The seller who kept rabbits curled a finger at her, grinning brilliantly. Five skeins of the sturdy wool she used for felted mittens and hats were already on Evan’s stall edge with her name on it. Very little made Ianthe smile more than the variety of colors and textures she found every time the yarn market opened to her. Not only was she their best customer, she was a walking advertisement for their products, since she hand-knit and resold every scrap of yarn she bought and she gave excellent references.

She paid Evan for the wool, then bought several skeins of rabbit mohair for baby things, a half-dozen skeins of brilliantly dyed cotton blend for a sweater requested by one of the fishmongers last month, and one precious skein of jewel-toned alpaca that she just couldn’t bare to pass by. 

“Are you ever going to reconsider my question?” Evan asked her as she counted out the coins. “You’d make a lot more money if you didn’t have to buy the yarn first.”

Ianthe smiled at him sadly and shook her head. “You’re sweet, Evan, but I’m not marrying you for your sheep.”

“They would love you as much as I do,” he said softly.

She grinned at him, amused. “Evan. They’re sheep. They’re stinky, ornery, grumpy sheep. They don’t love anyone, especially when they’re being sheared.”

“I’m stinky, ornery, and grumpy, but I do love you.”

“I’m not shearing you, either.” Ianthe smiled at him and waved. “I’ll see you next market day.”

“Happy knitting,” he sighed after her.

“You’d think the way to that girl’s heart would be through the sheep,” said Nancy, one of the other sellers, chuckling. 

“I keep trying,” Evan sighed. “I wonder who does has her.”

“Not everyone has a heart for sale,” Nancy smiled. 

“She was married once before, wasn’t she?”

Nancy nodded with a sad smile. “That was a sad situation. They were the cutest couple for the longest time. And then it just… stopped. They parted happily enough, but it was still sad to see. He still lives not far from here and does repairs on her house when there are problems. She knits for him in return.” 

“No kids?”

“No. They never wanted any.” She turned over a few skeins of yarn on her table, shooing away the flies drawn to the lanolin. “They had cats, I think.”

“A knitter with cats. She’s destined to be a spinster, I suppose.”

“Except she doesn’t spin. She knits. And she was married.” Nancy smiled. “She just...isn’t anymore.”

Evan looked down the road, his expression sad. “She married for love, then?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder she won’t marry me for my sheep.”

 

***

 

Ianthe got home and swept her purchases into the main room of her small house. She packed the vegetables, eggs, and cream into the deep ceramic box she kept in the floor of her kitchen, away from the fire pit, and then put a pan over the low-burning fire to heat for the fish. With careful patience, she built up the fire to a decent heat, then banked it again so it wouldn’t overheat the pan or the small house. 

“Don’t you dare,” she added over her shoulder, then glanced to check on the ginger tomcat who was stalking the filet. The cat looked at her innocently and cooed, a pigeon-like sound before he rushed to slam himself against her legs. “Ivan, you’re a menace,” she sighed softly and ruffled his fur.

Once the fish was cooked, she broke off enough for her dinner and wrapped the rest in waxed paper, packing it into another ceramic cool box she used for cooked and smoked meat. The cat whined and she slipped him a corner before she spread her dinner on a slab of bread and settled next to the fire. With Ivan tucked up against her hip, she set one of her skeins on the ball winder and began winding them into usable center-pull balls. 

Ianthe hummed when she did things like this: mindless jobs that let her drift through her inner thoughts. The more she drifted, the less likely she was to notice snags in the yarn or the cat eating her dinner, though, so the humming kept her present for the process. She smiled, watching Ivan chase the tail end of one skein until he tangled himself in the winder and she had to stop to release him. “Silly baby,” she murmured to him. He purred. Once the skeins were all wound, she pulled out her needles and started casting on for the sweater.

It was quiet now that she lived alone. It had been quiet, even when she was married: Cris had hardly been a loud man. But it was a different quiet now. Just her own breathing and the purring of the single cat; the elderly calico had insisted on staying with Cris and the kitten came and went as he pleased between both households. Now, it was just her and Ivan, the crackle of the fire, the smell of lanolin and wool and fried fish.

She didn’t mind the quiet. Maybe she would have felt lonelier when she was younger, but now, past her comfortable childbearing years and content with her surrogate child-cat, she felt comfortable knitting and reading and staying quiet.

She didn’t need romance.

She didn’t need love.

Ivan lifted his head from her leg and Ianthe wiped at her face, irritated by the tears she found there. “I don’t need it,” she whispered to him and rubbed behind his stubby orange ears. “But it might be nice. For a change.”

 

***

 

It had been a long, long time since he’d gone anywhere on foot. Geoff had to admit that he may have gotten a little soft with all the carriage riding. He definitely missed his horses, but had decided in the end that he was probably less of a target in homely clothes and on foot than in homely clothes and riding. At the very least, he was less likely to get stopped by suspicious guardsmen. 

He had covered a decent amount of distance in the last few days, nevertheless. He had changed out all of his gold coinage for small silver and copper, except for the emergency fund he was keeping in a belt against his skin. Better safe than sorry, as Antony had said to him repeatedly before he left.

He had dodged a ball-related bullet, too. Just after he had finished packing, his elder son, Ross had come flying up the stairs, burst into his chambers and gasped, “Ava’s on the warpath, Dad! If you’re going, you better go now.” He had hugged his son and sprinted off into the distance while Antony was still spluttering in wonder that Ross knew anything about this.

Once free of the castle, Geoff had spent a few more minutes in town buying bootblack from the cobbler and the cloak from a beggar about his height who luckily did not have fleas. He’d generously overpaid the man with a wink and a nod that probably had been missed anyway. It wasn’t as if the king usually walked around town in ill-fitting and shabby clothes. With his beard several shades darker than it had been in a decade and the thin wool cloak around his shoulders, he had gone off on his adventure.

His biggest surprise had been education, in the end. He had already promised Antony and Ross that he would send messages back regularly, so they knew he was safe and in good health. His first day in a small village had been enlightening. “Where might I go to send a message?” he  had asked one of the women who was drawing water from the village well.

“No scholar here,” she’d replied. “Closest one’s Ianthe, lives about a day’s walk North, the fishing town.”

“No, I don’t…” Geoff had trailed off as her words sank in. The assumption was that he wouldn’t know how to write for himself. Which meant that the scholar was also the scribe, as well as the contact point for sending and receiving messages.  _ Well, damn _ . He had thanked the woman and given her a few coppers for her trouble, which had amused her immensely.

So, he had turned himself North and started for the river. After about a day’s walk, he found the village the woman had mentioned and asked around until he figured out which of the small buildings off the main square belonged to Ianthe, the scholar. The grumpy man behind the pile of wool who answered him had also corrected him: “Ianthe’s our knitter more than the scholar. Yeah, she’s literate, but she’s the best damn knitter this side of the capital.” Something about the way he said “our” made Geoff raise an eyebrow, but he had nodded his thanks and headed toward the indicated house.

He tapped on the door with his knuckles, then stood back a little and automatically raised a hand to his beard. It took conscious effort not to absently rub his hands over his face and erase all the bootblack, not to mention spreading it all over his face in the process. It was itchy but worth not shaving every day. With his hand barely forced into a fist and lowered, the door opened and Geoff found himself looking down--and down--into the face of a woman in her late thirties wearing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that probably had cost her a year’s income to acquire. Her face was round, framed by red-brown hair in a braid over her shoulder, and she seemed tired but friendly enough when she smiled up at him. “Evening,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” he said, then fumbled a little. “At least, I hope so. I need to send a letter to my brother in the capital. Can you arrange that?”

“I can,” she smiled and stood back, sweeping a hand. “Come in. Mind the cat. He’s friendly but clawful.” She stepped back inside her home and turned her back to him, stirring the fire pit briefly. He hadn’t intended to let his eyes sweep over her body, but something about her movement was familiar. He noted that while her clothing was far from fashionable, she was clearly comfortable and her curves were not unattractive. “Can I get you anything? Tea? I bought some fresh cream at the market today and I think I have some coffee left.”

Geoff blinked in surprise at the last. “Coffee? Good lord, woman, how much do you charge?”

Ianthe beamed at him. “Enough to keep me in yarn and fresh fish. The coffee’s an indulgence. And a minor addiction, I must admit.” She put a kettle of water over the fire to heat and reached into a cupboard for a second mug. “Can I tempt you?”

“Coffee will always tempt me,” he admitted with a smile. “But no, I can’t have you waste it on a guest.” He paused to look around the small, warm space. The walls were lined with rough-hewn bookshelves and packed double-deep with books, some of which looked quite old. A small writing desk stood beside a rope-strung bed frame with a straw mattress. An orange tabby with a white chest snuggled into the bed, kneading his noticeably massive paws into the quilt and purring loudly. The fire pit was outfitted with a hang rod for a tea kettle or stew pot and a hearth for bread baking. It wasn’t palatial by any means, but it seemed cozy for a single woman and her cat. “You live here alone?” he asked.

“Just me and Ivan,” she agreed, indicating the cat. She settled at the writing desk and pulled a fresh page of parchment toward her. “Now, what did you say your name was?’

Geoff opened his mouth and closed it again, amused. He hadn’t actually had to tell anyone a name before now. “Morgan,” he said quickly, thinking of his mother’s family name. 

“I’m Ianthe,” she replied. “But you already knew that. And we’re writing to your brother?”

“I…” Geoff shifted his feet in embarrassment. “I actually already have the letter written. I just need to send it.”

Ianthe looked up through her glasses, obviously surprised, then gave him a shrewd look. “You don’t look like a monk,” she said thoughtfully.

“And you don’t look like a nun,” he replied tartly and she laughed. He realized that he was blushing and hoped she didn’t notice in the dim light from the fire, but it was true: she didn’t look anything like his impression of the staid, pious, matronly figures who bustled around the church and had taught both himself and his sons their letters. This woman was warm, friendly, with an easy laugh that made him want to relax. And the more he relaxed around her, the more those curves looked appealing. She was an attractive woman, both physically and in manner.  _ Maybe this won’t take long after all. _

“I’m not a nun,” she agreed cheerfully, then stood up to pour water from the kettle into a teapot. She stirred the tea thoughtfully, pulled the cream from a floor-installed cool box that had him blinking in surprise all over again, and handed him a mug. “But my father loved to read and taught my mother. And she taught me. We didn’t have much, but what we had, we spent on books.” With a sweep of her hand, Ianthe indicated the walls. “My dowry, such as it is.”

“You’re not married?”

“Not anymore.” Her face closed down and Geoff kicked himself for prodding the subject. Of course a woman her age wouldn’t want to discuss her marriage options. “But you had a letter you wanted sent.” She held out a hand.

Geoff pulled the letter out of his sleeve and placed it in her hand, suddenly painfully aware of the neat penmanship and the instinctively royal flourish he had placed on the address when he had written Antony’s name.

Ianthe looked at it and then looked up at him through her glasses, eyebrows raised in a sardonic expression. “Really? Your brother is the king’s valet?” She bopped him on the nose with the letter so he jerked back in shock. “This won’t do, your Highness.” She turned away from him while Geoff let his jaw hang slack. Ianthe swept the parchment with her arm, then began to write. When she was finished, she turned back to him and offered him the page. “Does this work?”

“Your Grace, please find enclosed a letter for your father’s valet from his brother, Morgan. Know he is well and has reached the banks of River Easling by this nineteenth day of the tenth month. Your humble servant, Knitter Ianthe of Easlington.” She had addressed the outside of the page to Ross. Geoff looked up at her, his eyes wide and wary. “It… works quite well.”

“Good,” she said and took the page back, wrapped his letter up inside it and sealed it quickly with her own wax and seal. “I’ll have it sent by messenger tomorrow. It should be in your brother’s hands by end of the week.”

Geoff continued to stare at her, confused and worried. “You… I… um…”

“So articulate,” she chuckled. “I assume your brother gained the lion’s share of the eloquence, then.”

If she knew who he was, she was purposely misdirecting and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. After a moment, he said, “Why Prince Ross?”

“King Geoffrey has enough on his plate right now without worrying about the help’s mail,” she replied, returning to her mug of tea. “If I had any confidence that Prince Tristan would remember to pass it along, I’d have sent it to him, but in my experience, either Prince Ross or Princess Ava is best at making sure the servants get their messages in a timely manner.” She took a sip of tea. “Never send mail directly to the king. It tends to look presumptuous. But I would have thought you would know that, having written to your brother before.”

“I guess Antony never told me,” Geoff said in a small voice. He wondered what else his staff didn’t tell him.


	2. Chapter 2

Ianthe watched her guest over the rim of her mug of tea. He was easily the best-looking thing to walk through her door in months and she was painfully aware that she was grinning stupidly at him. She did her best to hide it behind cheeky banter and the mug whenever she could, but… damn. They don’t grow ‘em like that in the country. 

Even if his beard was covered in bootblack.

And she was sure there was a reason for it. Just like there was a reason he was lying about his brother being the king’s valet. And why he was so immensely clueless about common sense protocol. At the very least, the bootblack was a clumsy attempt to look younger, not that he looked all that old to begin with. She put him maybe eight years older than herself, perhaps a full ten. 

Whoever Morgan really was, she found herself wondering if he had a brother. Because there was no way this man was available. 

He settled in and they talked for a while about nothing: the weather, the price of parchment and ink, who had the best chance to win the King’s Derby in the spring. Morgan seemed to light up on the subject of horses, so Ianthe prodded him gently with questions about breeding lines and the potential benefits of trading with the East mountain breeders. He was more than happy to talk about it. Ianthe made more tea and brought out the sugar crisps she’d made earlier that week. “I’ve been thinking about starting a breed-line,” Morgan admitted after a while, dunking a crisp in his tea. 

Ianthe raised her eyebrows and looked over his threadbare cloak and cracked boots. “I see.” She tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice without a whole lot of success.

He blinked and promptly lost the crisp into his tea. “Oops.” He stared longingly after it, then took a sip of tea, trying to fish the dropped cookie out again with long, tapered fingers. 

“There are plenty more,” giggled Ianthe as she pushed the plate toward him. “I usually have something sweet around.” Morgan looked up at her with half a broken lump of cookie sticking out of his mouth. She smothered an outright laugh behind a hand and he smiled, swallowing. “Apparently your brother got all the manners, too.”

“To be honest, I was just trying to get you to laugh,” he admitted, wiping his damp fingers on the edge of his cloak. “Not that the crisps aren’t wonderful because they are.”

Ianthe opened her mouth, then closed it again as she felt a blush flaming up her cheeks. “Oh. Well.” She shifted in her chair and looked deeper into her mug, not sure how to answer his compliment.

In the awkward silence that followed, Morgan looked into his own mug and used another crisp to fish the soggy remains of the first one out of his tea. When he’d consumed both and chased them with the last of the tea, he tilted his head and watched her carefully. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s… I’m just used to being alone, to be honest.” Ianthe poured a little more tea into her mug and offered the pot to him. He shook his head and she set it aside. “So, what brings you wandering out this far into the hinterlands, Morgan?”

Morgan’s face became a study in panic and Ianthe had to hide her amusement behind her mug again. He was a terrible liar. “I… just… um.” 

Ianthe tapped her mug against her bottom lip with a smirk. “Y’know… you are not skilled at deception, Morgan. You might as well just tell me what royal cellar you snuck out of to galavant around the countryside. At least I can give you suggestions on places to avoid if you don’t want to get robbed blind.”

“Who said anything about royalty?” protested the man as he stared in disappointment at the bottom of his empty mug, then paused when he realized there was boot black all around the edge of the mug. “Shit.”

“Don’t worry,” Ianthe smiled, “it washes off with some turpentine.” She leaned forward and took the mug from him, rubbing the boot black with a thumb. “Y’know, there are better ways to dye your beard.”

“Turpentine?” Morgan asked in a mournful tone and Ianthe grinned.

“Did you not notice the oily feel and smell?” she giggled. “Yes, boot black is oil-based.”

Morgan sighed miserably and reached up to rub at his chin, studying the thick, black oily substance that came away on his fingers. “Well. This has not gone as planned.”

“The best laid plan never survives contact with the enemy,” chuckled Ianthe and she stood up to root through her storage. “How about we make a deal. I’ll help you clean up and achieve the look you were going for. In return, you tell me exactly what’s going on. And bring me coffee next time you’re in the area.” She popped up with a bottle of turpentine, a few pots of plant dyes, and the skin softener she used when she was painting. While her guest puzzled over her words for a moment, she filled her kettle with water and set it over the fire pit to warm. 

“Why would you help me?” Morgan said, his tone a little helpless and confused in a way that made Ianthe smile. “I still haven’t paid you for the letter.”

“I haven’t forgotten that,” she smiled and started mixing dyes together in a mortar and pestle. “But you’ve eaten my crisps and drank my tea and made me laugh, all of which I haven’t had the pleasure of company for in a long time. So. Do you want my help or not?”

Morgan stared at her, then smiled helplessly and shrugged. “Please. And thank you.”

“Good.” Ianthe smiled and handed him the jar of turpentine and a rag. “Pour some turpentine on the rag and start wiping off the boot black. There’s a bar of soap and a basin over there for when you’re done.” She kept grinding the dyes together and glancing at him to consider his hair color. “Black or dark brown? It’s hard to tell in this light.”

“Dark brown,” he replied and wrinkled his nose at the smell of the turpentine as he wiped his beard clean. “So, you knit and write and bake and dye hair. What don’t you do?”

“Take bullshit,” grinned Ianthe. She came over to him and tilted his chin up toward the fire so she could see his progress. “There,” she added, tapping a spot along his jaw he’d missed. “And then the soap and water should get the rest.” He went to the basin and Ianthe watched him lather the soap, scrub his face vigorously, then rinse clean again. His beard was quite a bit lighter than she had expected and it did age him dramatically. She would not have guessed him older than 45 until she saw the grey in his beard. While the color made him look older, she had to admit to herself she liked him better in his natural color. He was painfully attractive. 

Morgan turned back from the basin and caught her watching him, drawing a raised eyebrow and a small smirk from him. “Yes, I’m old,” he sighed in resignation. “I know.”

Ianthe snorted and gestured to the chair. “Sit your old ass down and hold still.” Morgan chuckled and flopped back down into the chair obediently. Ianthe pulled the pot of lard from her cool box and brandished it at him. “This is going to stink and feel disgusting. But you’ll thank me when you have a face full of dye that is only sticking to your hair and to your face.”

“You have a scintillating bedside manner, madam.”

“You’re welcome.” She scooped lard out onto her fingers and applied it to his skin around the edges of his beard. “Chin up.” He obeyed, his lips twitching in amusement. She applied the protectant all along his neck, then paused. “I’ll let you get your lips.” She offered him the pot. They studied each other for a few seconds, then smiled and accepted it. 

Before smearing lard on his lips, he paused and chuckled, “I suppose this means it’ll be hard for me to keep my end of this bargain once my lips are cemented with fat.”

“Shut up and cement your face,” Ianthe grinned, adding warm water to the dye and stirring it with a spoon. She heard a few muffled sounds of disgust, then glanced back to make sure he was finished. “Very good.” She took the lard and put it away, then returned with the paste of dyes and a small brush. “Hold still and tip your head back a little.” With a sigh, Morgan settled into the chair with his head against the back and Ianthe tried not to stare at how instantly the man relaxed with his head tipped back and his throat exposed. “Yeah, you’re not rich.”

He looked up at her in surprise, eyebrows raised curiously, but Ianthe waved a hand and he settled back, still wary. As she worked the brush full of dye and then brushed it onto his beard, she said quietly, “You relax too quickly. You’re too used to being waited on.” Morgan made a soft, acknowledging sound, his eyes watching her face. The longer they stayed this close, the more Ianthe felt like maybe she’d made a mistake offering to help this charming stranger. He was even more charming when he couldn’t talk, all dark eyes and quiet, lingering glances. Stubbornly, she focused on scrubbing henna, indigo, and rosemary into his beard until all the grey was evenly covered with paste. “Now, you get to sit for a few hours,” she said cheerfully as she stood up.

“MMPH!?” Morgan sat up in surprise, staring at her. 

“What, you had somewhere better to be?” Ianthe smiled at him.

“Mmm!” he shook his head, then snorted in irritation through his nose. “Mmph.”

“Hard when you don’t have a voice, isn’t it?”

Morgan held very still and watched her for a long moment in silence. Ianthe met his eyes quietly, then broke away. “Sorry. It’s just… uncomfortable being where I am and seeing you where you are. Your side never sees the reality of what’s happening over here.”

After a second, Morgan stood up and walked over to the desk, pulled a piece of charcoal towards him and scribbled on the stones beside the hearth: “My side?”

“Yes.” Ianthe settled herself back in her chair facing him. She pulled her knitting to her and started picking up the pattern again. “The divide between royalty and the elite side of life from where the rest of us live… it makes for discomfort when we cross paths. How long has it been since you spent time with anyone who doesn’t have enough money for a lady’s maid? How long since you talked with a lady’s maid, for that matter?”

He was still and quiet for a while, then rubbed out the previous note and wrote: “Too long.”

“At least you’ve got the grace to admit it,” Ianthe sighed. She knit in silence for a while and Morgan slowly wiped out the charcoal on her hearthstone. “The aristocracy just walks into our lives like we’re some kind of entertainment, a play put on for their amusement. While on our side, real people are starving, freezing to death. We lose children to disease and accident, mothers to birthing children. We lose partners to injury or conscription into the king’s army and navy. To fight his wars while he plays at battle on the sidelines.” She fell silent again, feeling a blush rising on her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I know it isn’t your fault and I’m not holding you personally responsible. I know better. It’s just… hard sometimes.”

She could hear the charcoal scratching on the hearth for a second and then glanced up to see Morgan watching her. He had written, “I’m still sorry.”

Ianthe smiled quietly and nodded, accepting the apology. “Did you want me to do your hair, too? At least you’ll match then.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” he wrote, his expression indignant and Ianthe laughed.

 

***

 

After several hours and an additional application of dye to darken his hair, Geoff found himself scrubbing lard and some kind of spicy mixture off of his face. It smelled like nothing he’d experienced before, somewhere between the warm, sunlit fields of hay and the burned smell of spice bread overbaked. When the water dripping off his chin finally ran clear, he looked up and found that Ianthe had brought him a small framed glass, just enough so he could see his reflection. True to her promise, his beard had darkened almost back to what he remembered when he’d been courting. His lips still felt strangely smooth from the lard and he scrubbed at them with the back of his hand before looking up at the woman holding the glass. “Thank you.”

Ianthe smiled and nodded slightly before taking the glass back. “You’ll need another half glass or so on the hair, then you can wash that, too. I’ll go draw some fresh water and get it warming.” She stood and headed toward the door with a bucket. 

“Let me help.” 

“No,” she smiled quietly and shooed him with her hands. “There’s no need for you to look ridiculous running around the town square with a head full of dye.” He sat back on his heels and she smiled again. “I’ll be right back.”

She left him standing in her small house, among things that had seemed provincial and quaint when he first arrived and now seemed elegant, warm. He felt at home in her space because she had opened her home to him. Geoff looked at the orange cat dozing on her bed, then at the storage chest full of yarn and apparently a plethora of other things like herbal dyes. 

And in a strange elongation of time, he knew he’d found what he was looking for. Her frank honesty, the way she simply took care of what needed to be done, her warm smile. It seemed ridiculous that he had so suddenly fallen into what he wanted, but he knew it when he saw it. He wanted to spend his remaining years with Ianthe teasing him over coffee, knitting him socks and scolding him when they ripped, with her cat pacing his hearth and his horses paying for their quiet life together. He wanted to hold her in his arms and feel her smile against his skin. 

Almost angry with himself, Geoff dropped down to sit with his back to the fire pit and put his face in his hands, feeling his scalp crawl with the shifting of the dye. Now, all he had to do was tell her. 

And find a way to convince her that her heart belonged with him, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Ianthe returned from the well to find Morgan sitting by the firepit with his face in his hands. He looked so dejected that she wondered if she’d been a little too hard on him about the class divide. It was something of a sore spot for her, having seen both the upper crust’s easy comfort with education and luxury, and the difficulty of living without the simple necessities. Her father’s education had been both a blessing and a curse sometimes. She poured the bucket of water into the larger kettle to warm, then eased herself down onto the hearthstones beside him. “Are you okay?”

Morgan jerked a little, seeming surprised by her presence. “Yes. I…” he paused and blinked at her. “How long have you been back?”

“A few minutes,” she smiled. 

“I guess I didn’t hear you come in,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Just thinking about some things.”

“Well, you still owe me for the dye and the letter,” Ianthe smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I hope you’ve been considering how to explain yourself.”

“I have.” The ironic lift to his voice made her glance at his face in surprise. He slowly rubbed his palms together, letting his hands hang down between his knees before he looked at her and took a deep breath. “I’m not sure how much news has circulated out this way, but the royal family are hosting a ball. That part I know has been public, but what not as many people know is that King Geoff is planning to retire, abdicate to Prince Ross. He’s just… tired, I guess. And the prince is ready to rule, so he didn’t see a point in prolonging his rule just because he hasn’t died yet.” Morgan shifted to rest his chin in his hand, elbow resting on his knee. He glanced at Ianthe, waiting for some acknowledgement before he continued. 

“The ball was announced,” Ianthe said softly, “maybe two weeks ago? Nobody much noticed, though. There’s always some kind of social event happening in the capital.” She considered his words for a moment, then paused to check the dye in his hair. “Not quite yet. Is the king well, though? He may be removed from us, but he’s always been a good ruler. I’d hate to think he was ill.”

Morgan smiled and moved his hand to cover his face slightly before he murmured, “Yes, the king is well. As well as anyone his age is, anyway. Just tired.” He rubbed his fingers through his beard and sighed with a smile. “Thank you for this. I hadn’t realized how itchy the boot black really was until it was gone.”

“You’re welcome,” she smiled. “So, the royal family’s ball…”

“Yes, sorry.” He cleared his throat and rested his chin in his hand again. “The king decided he wanted to retire and would announce it then. He wants to retire to the countryside.” Morgan paused and stared at the far wall for a while and Ianthe waited quietly for him to collect his thoughts. “He sent a few of us, people he trusted, out to look for a suitable area where he might be able to buy a farm. And where maybe the people wouldn’t mind having a retired ruler poking around their market occasionally.”

Ianthe considered his words, then tilted her head slowly. “What else?”

Morgan looked at her and his eyes were worried. “Nothing else.”

“You lie like a rug, Morgan. His Majesty might trust you, but I suspect that’s because can always tell when you’re lying.” She smiled at him and watched his cheeks flush in embarrassment. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s sweet. I’d rather be around a man who’s honest than someone who always smiles his way out of ever telling the truth.” She leaned to bump lightly against his shoulder. “But you owe me. And I’m waiting.”

He sighed and rubbed his hands almost fiercely over his face, stopping just shy of running his fingers through his dye-saturated hair. “The king’s lonely, Ianthe. Has been for a long time, ever since…” he trailed off and closed his eyes on a look of pain. Surprised, Ianthe reached and gently rubbed his shoulder. He glanced at her with tears in his eyes and smiled a quick thanks. “The queen was special. We all loved her.”

“I know,” she murmured. “Even out here, she was special.” When he leaned unconsciously towards her, Ianthe rubbed her hand comfortingly over his back. 

“But he’s been thinking that he didn’t want to retire alone. So we were supposed to… look for someone.”

“Someone?” Mild irritation crept into Ianthe’s voice and she tried to smother it. “Anyone in particular or just… someone?”

Morgan closed his eyes with a sigh. “Someone who wasn’t seeking a position. Someone who could see who he is instead of who everyone thinks he is.” He glanced up at her with a small smile. “Someone who could love him like the queen loved him.”

“You’re wife-shopping for the king.” 

He winced and looked away. “It’s not like that.”

Ianthe sighed and rubbed his back once more before taking her hand back. “It’s exactly like that, Morgan. You’re wandering out into the great wide world, checking out the peasants and looking for one that will be so grateful to be noticed by the king’s agent that she won’t even think twice about agreeing to whatever he asks. You’re shopping for someone who’s pretty and happy with a lower station so she won’t mind being relegated to a housewife in the countryside, keeping house for the king so he can play at farming into his old age.”

He dropped his face into his hands with a sigh. “Ianthe…”

“No, I know it’s not your fault,” she said and stood up, feeling a sudden need to pace. “It’s just… the arrogance! Any woman in the world would be so blessed to be noticed by the king, so of course whatever she might have planned for her life will go right out the window. Because he might like her.” She turned abruptly and snapped, “Let him find his own goddamn housewife.”

Suddenly, Morgan was on his feet and his mouth was on hers. Ianthe squeaked in surprise, but relaxed into his touch. She hadn’t even realized how long it had been since anyone kissed her and Morgan know exactly how to do it, too. His hands were gentle and his lips warm, framed by the scratchiness of his beard. After a moment, he let his forehead rest lightly against hers and whispered, “I think I will.”

“That was… sudden,” she whispered back, feeling breathless. She opened her eyes and watched his face carefully. 

“I’m sorry.” Morgan stroked her face and Ianthe couldn’t resist leaning against his hand for a moment. “It’s just… you’re exactly what he sent me out to find. And now that I’ve found you, I don’t want to go back and tell him.” He closed his eyes and sighed softly. “I’m in something of a dilemma, you see.”

“You have such low standards,” chuckled Ianthe. “The first semi-educated woman you find who dyes your hair and gives you a lot of lip.” She paused and lifted her fingertips against his hair. “Speaking of which, you’re ready for a rinse.”

“Guess I like a woman with education and sass,” he said with a small smile, letting her pull him over to the basin again.

 

***

 

Geoff closed his eyes and let her rinse the dye from his hair. Her hands were warm and nimble, effective as she worked the paste from his scalp. For a minute, he felt like he could die happy right there, having this woman touching him so gently. 

This was going to be so hard. He’d told her a partial truth, but still told her lies. He wasn’t the king’s agent. He was in love with her. He didn’t want to go home with news that he’d found what he was looking for. But that was because he knew she would hate the pageantry of it all. She would hate that he was the king.

He was going to have to tell her. And that realization ate him up inside. 

He just wanted so badly to shed that life. He wanted to stay here with her, wrapped up in her knitting and her books, seeing the world for what it really was instead of the varnished stage of wealth and power. He wanted to hold her against him and kiss her again, to know for once in his life that it wasn’t his position that kept her close to him.

Once the water stopped sluicing over his scalp, he felt Ianthe touch his face gently, her fingertips stroking his skin. “Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“Not really,” he admitted without opening his eyes. 

Her hand stroked over his forehead, then down his cheek, fingers working into his beard. “Morgan,” she whispered gently, “you don’t even know me. You literally just met me. While I’m intensely flattered by the attention, you should really spend some time wandering before you decide I’m the perfect match for the king.”

“I didn’t say that,” he whispered, eyes still closed. “I said you’re the perfect match for me.” With a low, bitter laugh, he added, “Fuck the king. Let him find his own goddamn housewife.”

“I’d make a shitty housewife anyway,” Ianthe said and he could hear the smile in her voice. “But, seriously. Perfect matches don’t happen in chance meetings like this. Spend some time looking. I’m not going anywhere.” Slowly, she stroked his face again and he sighed.

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” he whispered. “This is the happiest I’ve felt in years.”

“So, what’s your story?” Ianthe said. “You’ve told me why you’re out here for the king, but why are you out here… for you?”

Geoff sighed, wondering what to say. “I spent my whole life at court. Raised with the expectation of the aristocracy: education, breeding, born to rule. All of us are, you know. There’s always the chance that something will happen to the royal family, so we’re all raised with that expectation. It’s why there are so many uprisings in history: some get sick of waiting for something to happen and start making it happen instead. But at heart… I love horses, Ianthe. I love quiet days in the sunshine. Sure, I’m used to the trappings of the elite. But that doesn’t mean I want them.” He opened his eyes and looked at her, her face upside-down above him over the basin. “Is it a crime to want a simple life?”

Her palms rested gently against his cheeks as she met his eyes. “Only if you curse that simple life when it gets hard,” she whispered. “Because living simply is living without. Without servants to cook and clean, servants to dress and wash your clothes, servants to care for your animals. Wanting a simple life means wanting a hard life, too. Because you can’t just play at it, Morgan. You can’t just take the horses to market and show off how fine they are without having mucked their stalls and birthed their foals with your arms covered in blood and trained them to harness and saddle with your own hands, your own voice. You can’t just enjoy the good parts without living through the bad ones.” When he flinched, she leaned down and kissed his forehead lightly. “That’s life. Real life. Out here.”

“Like wanting the housewife without taking the grief.”

“Oh, there are plenty of housewives out there who won’t give you the grief,” the woman chuckled. “You just have particularly poor taste.”

“Or really good taste.” He reached up, seeking to touch her face, but Ianthe leaned back away from his hand. “I don’t want a housewife, Ianthe,” he whispered. “I want a partner. Someone who will push back when I’m being an asshole, tell me when I’m doing something stupid. But someone who tells me because she loves me.”

“You just met me,” she reminded him again as she stood up. “Love doesn’t happen like that.” Ianthe paced across the small room to retrieve a towel stained black and copper, apparently the towel she used with hair dye. She returned to him and wrapped the towel over his hair. “Sit up.” He obeyed and she rubbed his hair vigorously until it felt drier. “Love takes time. And patience. And sacrifice. Love doesn’t happen overnight. That’s just lust.” She dropped the towel down to his shoulders and combed his hair out with her fingers. “There. That’s a better match for your beard now.”

“Ianthe,” he sighed and tried to turn to face her. She grabbed his shoulders and firmly turned him back to face away from her and Geoff sighed, letting his chin drop to his chest. She continued to comb his hair with her fingers and he closed his eyes against the feelings rising in his chest. “Please. Give me the time. I want to know you.”

“The ball is in three weeks,” she replied shortly. “You don’t have the time.”

“I’ll tell him I didn’t find anyone.”

“You’d lie to your king?” Ianthe chuckled as she pulled the slight curls at the nape of his neck and made them lie flat against his skin before releasing them to spring back. “You’re a terrible liar, Morgan. He’ll see right through you.”

“I didn’t find anyone,” he whispered. “Not for him.”

“Only because you stopped looking three days out from the capital.” She paused with her fingers curled against the back of his neck. “You need to fulfill your duty. I won’t have you mooning over me and leaving the king hanging. That’s not right.”

“Duty,” snorted Geoff. “As if I haven’t heard that word every day of my life.”

“We all do.” He felt her lips gently press against the back of his neck and he blinked in surprise, his skin prickling. “Duty’s not limited to the elite, Morgan. We all have duties. To our king, to our families, to ourselves.” Her hands left his skin and Geoff turned to watch her go, feeling an ache in his chest as she moved away from him. “We may not like it, but we all have duty.”

Without really thinking about it, Geoff found himself standing and going to her, reaching to catch her hands and pull them to his chest. “And who do you have duty to?”

“Myself.” Ianthe smiled at him sadly and pulled her fingers from his hands. “You need to go.”

“I don’t want to.”

“It’s my house.”

Geoff dropped his head a little and licked his lips. “Ianthe…”

“No.” She smiled at him again and moved past him toward the cool boxes in the floor. “I’ll give you some food for the road, but you need to go before it gets much later. There’s no place for you to stay here; we’re too small for an inn. The nearest inn is maybe two hours’ walk along the river. Elsie has good beds and good rates, so try to stay with her at the Golden Duck. She’s usually full this time of year, but if you mention my name, she might be able to find space for you. The Happy Hound is decent, but there are no locks on the doors and you will find things missing in the morning. It’s practically the price of admission.”

Frustrated, Geoff watched her bustling around, taking slices of bread from a loaf and putting sliced tomatoes, fresh spinach, and fried fish onto them with a smear of something that looked like mustard. “Ianthe, I’m not taking your food.”

“You are,” she replied shortly, wrapping the sandwich in waxed paper and handing it to him. “You should get going.”

“I don’t want to.” He reached to catch her hand and she sighed, her eyes closed. “Please don’t make me leave. I want to stay with you.”

“I didn’t offer,” Ianthe said in a low voice. “And that’s one thing you need to learn about this side of the world. If you aren’t asked to stay, you aren’t welcome to stay. You don’t automatically have the right to someone else’s space.” She opened her eyes and met his gaze firmly. “Or someone else’s life.”

“I…” Geoff let her go and she smiled slightly, stepping back. He didn’t know what to say, only that he felt like she had ripped his heart out of his chest when she moved away from him, like she had drawn all of his emotions to the surface and skimmed them like cream from fresh milk. He wanted her so badly. And she was the one thing he couldn’t have. “I’ll go. Can I come back?”

“If you want. But later, Morgan. After the ball. I don’t want to see you before then.” She lifted her chin to meet his eyes firmly. “Okay?”

“Okay.” 

And just like that… he found himself walking back down the road.


	4. Chapter 4

Ianthe sprawled herself on the bed. Ivan climbed onto her chest and kneaded his massive paws there for a second until she shooed him away with sounds of pain. “I’m such a fucking liar, Ivan,” she informed the cat in despair. “Three weeks? I told him to leave me alone for three weeks? I already want to run after him and walk him to Elsie’s. Who the hell am kidding. I’m already nuts about him.” She sighed and threw one arm over her eyes with an irritated groan. “I’m nuts, anyway.”

She returned to knitting. Ivan returned to napping and hunting mice. A storm rolled through about eight days after Morgan had left and Ianthe found herself starting a heavy wool hat and mittens to felt for when he came back. It was cold enough in the evenings now that she couldn’t help worrying for him. Irritated with herself, she laughed. And kept knitting. 

Ianthe sent out a few letters for her usual correspondents. She collected some of the herbs she needed for dyes and set them to dry above the fire pit, made a list of others she would need to replenish at the market after Morgan’s hair. She walked through town and visited with her neighbors, gathered news from around the area.

“The king is missing.” Ianthe looked up from where she was debating between two different shades of blue flax yarn. Several people were clustering together at the market and talking in nervous tones, so she set the yarn down and edged over to hear what she could. “He’s been missing for a while, but nobody really seemed to notice. Prince Ross has been doing so much lately anyway.”

“Why are they noticing now?”

“The palace made an announcement. They apparently knew he was gone but he was supposed to be checking in regularly and no one has heard from him in almost two weeks.”

“And the ball is only a few days away! Where can he be?”

“Two weeks?” Ianthe asked quickly and the group looked up. “How long has he been missing?”

“They said they knew where he was two weeks ago,” Nancy said. “But haven’t heard from him since.”

“Where was he?”

“Not far from here, I think.”

Ianthe closed her eyes and sighed. “Damn you, Morgan. You’re a better liar than I thought.” She collected the yarn she had already paid for and rushed back to her house. She threw a heavy cloak over her shoulders, pulled one of her good hats over her ears, packed up the dry food she had in the house, and stuffed the hat and mittens she’d felted into a satchel. As she came back out, she caught Nancy’s arm, “Nance, can you watch Ivan for a few days? I need to go.”

Nancy frowned, but nodded. “Ianthe, where…”

“I don’t know,” she replied shortly, “but I’ll be back when I can.” She kissed her friend quickly on the cheek and turned away, hiking her bag up onto her shoulder and walking briskly for the road.

 

***

 

“Ianthe!” Elsie smiled warmly at her friend and pulled her into a hug. “I haven’t seen you in forever. Come in, come in!”

“It’s good to see you, Elise,” Ianthe agreed, hugging her, “but I can’t stay. Did a man come through here about two weeks ago and ask for a room using my name?”

Elsie blinked and nodded, “Yes, he did. Good looking, tall. Dark hair… that was your work, wasn’t it?” Ianthe closed her eyes and nodded with a small smile. “Yeah, he was here. Stayed overnight, got breakfast, paid twice what I asked for and then was out by mid-morning.” She tilted her head. “Why?”

“I’m trying to find him,” Ianthe admitted quietly.

Elsie was quiet for a moment, then stroked Ianthe’s cheek affectionately. “Are you finally moving on?”

Ianthe snorted. “I need another marriage like I need a whole in the fucking head, Elsie. But that man is important and hasn’t been seen for two weeks. I need to find him if I can.”

Elsie’s eyes widened. “That was King Geoffrey?”

“I think so. Didn’t know at the time, but the dates and locations since the disappearance match.” Ianthe ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “Dammit, Elsie. I need to find him.”

“Not alone,” Elsie said firmly and snapped her fingers toward someone in the back room. 

“I’m fine, Elsie.”

“No. I’m not letting you traipse around all of creation looking for a missing royal without someone to back you up.” Elsie turned away and exchanged a few words with someone from the kitchen. “You can take Ethel and Brom. Brom’s got a head like a rock, but Ethel’s smart enough to be able to pull you out of the fire if you get in too deep.” She bustled around briefly and then handed Ianthe a wrapped parcel. “And food. I know you well enough to know that you brought some but not enough. Take three horses from the stable and we’ll negotiate a barter when you get back. I need a good wool sweater and Carla’s having twins who will need blankets.” 

Ethel and Brom, two of Elsie’s hired toughs came up with their bags slung over their shoulders. Ethel looked like someone had just woken her up, but she smiled when she saw Ianthe. They were cousins on their mothers’ side and had grown up together; Ianthe smiled back. “Fine, I could use the company and if something has happened, I might need help.” She hugged Elsie, “Thank you, Elsie. I owe you.”

“No more than usual,” the innkeeper smiled and kissed her cheek. “Take care of her,” she admonished the others. 

“She’s family,” Ethel replied softly. “Of course.” Brom just nodded.

They collected horses and tack, saddled and headed out with Ianthe crouched low on her mare’s neck. She’d chosen one of Elsie’s Eastern-bred mares because they were sturdier and had more stamina, were more sure-footed in uncertain terrain. Her companions had chosen the locally bred work horses often used to carry knights in armor in addition to pulling plows and wagons. They couldn’t keep up with Ianthe’s mare over long distances or in rough terrain, but they would do for now. She tried to focus on riding and less on worrying, but more than a few worries still crept into her mind.

All the things he’d said seemed to have shifted in her mind and Ianthe struggled to keep from clenching her jaw.  _ The king is lonely. Is it a crime to want a simple life? I want to stay with you. I said you’re perfect for me. _ Without meaning to, she urged her horse faster and the mare sprang down the road, powerful legs pounding the earth as she easily outpaced Ethel and Brom’s horses. “Goddamn, Morgan, you had better be okay,” she hissed under her breath.

 

***

 

Snow started to fall shortly after nightfall and Ethel called up to Ianthe, “We need to stop. The horses can’t see and it’s getting too cold to keep going.”

“They’re fine,” Ianthe shot back.

“They aren’t,” replied her cousin. She urged her own horse up beside Ianthe’s mare and reached for the reins. “Ianthe, you can’t keep going. The horses are exhausted and so are you. So are we. We need to stop.”

“He’s still out there!” Ianthe snapped angrily. “We can’t leave the king out in this!”

“We can’t go running all over the countryside in the middle of the night in a snowstorm and hope to find him!” Ethel shot back. “We need to rest and take stock somewhere, then start looking again in the morning. We don’t even know that he came this way!” When Ianthe looked at her cousin in anguish, the big woman sighed and tugged the reins, pulling Ianthe’s mare closer. “Yanti,” she sighed, using the family nickname from their childhood. “Please. Calm down and think about this. I know it’s the king, but what’s gotten into you?”

“He’s out there because of me,” whispered Ianthe miserably. “He wanted to stay with me and I made him leave. I didn’t know who he was.”

“Two weeks ago,” Ethel sighed in irritation. “You were hospitable and then made sure he moved on, like anyone sane would have. There’s no reason to kick yourself about this and certainly no reason to kill yourself and us over it. Please, let’s stop for the night.”

Ianthe’s mare snorted angrily and shook her mane, obviously more than ready to stop. “Fine,” Ianthe whispered. 

“There’s a hunting lodge this way,” called Brom as he worked his big horse back to them. “It’s one of the common lodges, but it should be secure.” He turned back toward the path and Ethel started to follow him, still holding Ianthe’s mare’s reins. 

“I’m capable of following,” Ianthe snapped.

“I don’t want to risk losing you,” replied her cousin in a similar tone. After several minutes of picking along the deer path until they were all shaking and the horses were blowing steam, they finally found the hunting lodge and Brom tried the door. “It’s warm,” he said in surprise and pushed his head inside. “Hello?” He came back out with a startled expression. “There’s someone here, but they’re not answering. Ethel…?”

Ethel dismounted and handed the reins for her horse to Ianthe. “Stay here. We’ll check it out.” She followed her partner into the house quickly, knives drawn and wary. Shortly afterwards, Ianthe heard Ethel shout, “Yanti!” She leaped down from the mare and managed to loop the reins over a bush before she sprinted inside to answer her cousin. 

Inside the lodge, she found Ethel and Brom crouched beside a still body on the floor near the fire. Ethel was pulling a scarf away from his face and Brom was busily trying to rekindle the fire. “Morgan.” Ianthe dropped immediately down beside him and rolled the unconscious man onto his back. “Fuck. What happened?”

“He’s like ice,” Ethel said quickly. “There’s still some warmth in here, but he must have gotten too cold and the fire went out.” 

“Get that fire going,” Ianthe said quickly. She pulled Morgan’s scarf the rest of the way off, terrified to find it icy and wet. “Shit, he’s got no sense at all. He’s soaked.”

“Royals,” snorted Ethel as she helped her cousin strip the king down to his underclothes. Ianthe fluffed the soaked clothing out near the fire as Brom blew on the kindling. “They never know what’s going on until it bites them.”

“Shh,” hissed Ianthe as she returned with a dry blanket from the bed. Ethel helped her wrap him up and Ianthe tried to chafe some warmth into his hands. “C’mon, Morgan, wake up.” He stirred a little and groaned and she sighed, bowing her head over his hands. “At least he’s still alive.”

“C-cold,” he whispered.

“I know,” Ianthe replied and breathed on his hands, rubbing them firmly. “We’re working on in, Morgan. Stay awake if you can.” He shifted and made a soft sound, eyes only half open as she rubbed circulation back to his fingers. “Stay with me,” she whispered.

“Ianthe?” His voice was confused and foggy. Morgan blinked and tried to open his eyes. “No… can’t…” He dropped back against the blanket with a faint groan. 

“Shh,” she whispered and tucked his hands back against his chest. “Damn, he’s still too cold. The blanket’s not going to be enough. Not without a fire.” Ethel opened her mouth and Ianthe pointed at her angrily. “Don’t say a fucking word, Ethel. Or I’ll put jasmine in your tea for the next five years.” Her cousin closed her mouth again with a small smile and Ianthe proceeded to pull her cloak and sweater off over her head. Brom made a faintly embarrassed sound and Ianthe glared at him, too. “Shut up.” When she’d gotten herself down to skin, she crawled under the blanket and pressed herself close to Morgan. “You have to survive, you ninny,” she whispered in his ear. “Or I’ll bring you back and kill you myself.”

She could hear Ethel and Brom still moving around the small cabin, then Ethel moved close to his feet, pulled the blanket aside and began rubbing Morgan’s feet. “Yanti, we need to get you closer to the fire. He’s still not warming up down here.”

“Okay.” Ianthe shifted and helped them move the king in his blanket cocoon closer to the fire that was finally starting to crackle and put off some heat. Half naked and shaking herself, Ianthe huddled by the fire and watched him. “Please, Morgan.”

“We’ll take it in shifts,” Ethel said softly. “You need to warm up. I’ll take a shift, then Brom. He’ll be okay, Yanti. He will.” She squeezed her cousin’s shoulder and wrapped a dry cloak around her shoulders. “Warm up and rub his feet.”

They spent all night rotating between stoking the fire, rubbing the king’s frozen feet, and keeping themselves pressed tight to his icy flesh. None of them could bring themselves to sleep, no matter how tired they were. Finally, sometime near dawn, Ethel touched Ianthe’s shoulder. “It’s your turn for body duty.”

“Duty,” Ianthe laughed weakly and shed the warm cloak to crawl back under the blanket. This time, though, Morgan moved when she did, a soft groan slipping out of him and his arms moving restlessly. “Morgan?”

“Ianthe.” He turned his head toward her, away from the heat of the fire. “I know I’m dreaming now.”

“No, I’m here,” she whispered and stroked her hand down his cheek. “I’m right here, Morgan.”

Slowly, he stirred again and blinked until his eyes cleared enough to see her. “Where am I?”

“Hunting lodge about two hours from Little Crow,” Ianthe whispered. “There was a snowstorm and we stopped. I don’t know how long you’ve been here. Can you remember?”

He shook his head and squirmed. “Hands and feet hurt.”

“You were half frozen when we found you.” Ianthe paused, then reached to touch his face again, worried. “Why did you stop writing home? Where have you been? The whole country’s worried.”

Slowly, he blinked at her and frowned, then the logic seemed to clear in his mind. “The whole… you know.”

“Your Majesty,” she confirmed softly. Morgan closed his eyes and rolled his face away from her. Ianthe reached gently to touch him again, still pressed close to his skin. “What happened?”

Morgan paused and then seemed to become aware of how little they were both wearing under the blankets. His face flamed red, even through the pinking of his cheeks from the change in temperature. “Um… Ianthe? Where are my pants?”

“They’re drying by the fire,” she replied. “You were soaked to the skin and half frozen, like an idiot royal in a snow storm.”

“And your clothes?”

“You were half frozen. We needed to warm you up and the fire wasn’t doing it.” Ianthe found herself starting to blush, too. “It wasn’t just me. Ethel and Brom have been helping.”

“Ah.” Morgan studied the blush on her cheeks and chewed his lip, looking embarrassed. “I’m… sorry that you learned all of this from someone else. I was going to tell you. After the ball, when I came back. I was going to…”

Ianthe shook her head with a small smile. “Shut up, Your Majesty.”

Morgan looked up in surprise. “Pardon?”

“I said, shut up.” She leaned and kissed him slowly, gently stroking his face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for two weeks,” she whispered to him. “I was so sure I would never see you again, the aristocrat who wanted a simple life. And then I heard that the king was missing. Missing and last seen near my home around the time I met you.” When Morgan opened his mouth, Ianthe covered his lips with her hand. “I’m not an idiot. I had to come find you.”

Slowly, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the floor again. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s the least we can do as citizens,” she whispered with humor in her voice and he blinked, looking back. “Morgan… if I can still call you that… I want you to understand something. I’m crazy. Completely off my nut. But I don’t care about who you are. I still feel the same way about you that I did two weeks ago when you were being a clueless aristocrat wandering the wilderness shopping for a wife for a king with boot black in your beard.”

He raised an eyebrow, concerned and she grinned. 

“I want to know more about you,” she whispered. “You’re stunningly handsome, utterly clueless, and charmingly adorable.” Slowly, Morgan turned toward her until he could put his arms around her. When she smiled and tucked herself closer, he chewed his bottom lip and curled his arms close. “And I’ve been distracted by how you kissed me that one time. Once. And you’ve consumed me.” He put a hand to her cheek and she ducked, blushing. “I knit you a hat and mittens. When it started to get cold. I figured you’d need them.”

“Guess I did,” he chuckled softly as he stroked her cheek with his thumb. “I know this might seem… like an odd request, but could I kiss you? I mean, we’re here naked--”

“Half-naked,” she interjected.

“Half-naked,” he agreed, “and I’m asking politely to kiss you. I realized on the road that I didn’t ask the first time. And I should have. I’m sorry for that.”

“I would like that,” Ianthe smiled, still blushing.

Geoffrey leaned in with one hand around the back of her head and pulled her down to his mouth in a slow, gentle kiss. 


	5. Chapter 5

Geoff stood in his dressing room, staring at the figure in the full-length mirror. “I am so very tired of this shit.” Antony snorted and bustled past him with a clothes brush and dusted his shoulders. “I think I got too used to dressing like a normal person.”

“When you weren’t busy catching your death of cold,” the valet muttered. 

“Yes, Antony,” Geoff chuckled, “thank you for that.”

“You’re quite welcome, sir.” Antony stopped fussing long enough to let his hands rest on his king’s shoulders. “Welcome home, sir. We missed you.”

Geoff smiled, a half-twisted expression. “Yeah. I’d say it’s good to be home, but it’s not.” He glanced at his valet over his shoulder. “But it’s good to see you, too.” He rubbed his hands over his face with a low groan, then paused to look in the mirror again with a small grin. “At least my beard looks good.”

“Your beard looks phenomenal, sir.” Antony paused, coming back around to study the color. “Honestly, I would quite like to speak with your colorist. It’s stunning.” 

Geoff chuckled and patted the man on the shoulder as he headed out into the hallway. In the hall, a pair of pages stopped and came to attention as he came by. He smiled and waved the boys on, strode down the hall, thought about how this had been his home for so long. But it felt like someone else’s home now. It belonged to Ross and Ava now, to Tristan and Genevieve. To their children. 

His steps came quicker.

 

***

 

“His Royal Highness, King Geoffrey.” 

The court all turned to look toward the door as Geoff came inside the ballroom. He stopped briefly to receive the applause, then walked through the crowd until he found Ross. He hugged his son quickly and said, “Can we get this over with already?”

“We were just waiting for you,” Ross grinned, hugging his father. He paused and flipped a finger against Geoff’s beard, “I like the color. You look like my brother instead of my dad.”

Geoff gave him a small shove and they grinned at each other before heading toward the dais where the thrones were set: Geoff’s simple throne with its empty mate, Ross’s to his right and Tristan’s to his left. They took their places, then the herald slammed his staff against the floor to call attention. “Hear ye, hear ye! An address from the king!”

As the crowd settled back into silence, Geoff stepped up beside the herald and smiled at him. “Thank you, Seth.” The herald blinked, clearly surprised that the king remembered his name, then he smiled and stepped out of the way so Geoff could address his court. “Ladies and gentlemen of my court. You’ve been called here to celebrate with us on an occasion about which we have not been forthcoming. You have been my court for fifteen years, since the death of my father. And after tonight, you will belong to my son, Prince Ross.” While the court rustled in nervousness, he held up his hands for silence again. “I have had a lot of time to consider this decision. And I watched my father waste under the weight of his rule. He was a good man and a good king, born and bred to rule. At the end of his life, he told me one thing: that he regretted not living. To that end, I have decided to abdicate and retire while I am still capable of living a life that would have made my father… the man he was, not the king he was… proud of me.” He paused and smiled, feeling his throat close up a little. “And a life that would have made my queen happy.”

With a slow breath, Geoff looked back toward Ross and held out a hand. “I want you to know that I will always be available to my kingdom. If you need me, you only need send for me and I will answer.” When Ross raised an eyebrow, Geoff grinned more honestly, “eventually.” A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd and Ross came to stand next to his father. “Ladies and gentlemen. I have had the pleasure of being your king. And now, I have the pleasure of presenting the next without having to die first. King Ross. Long live the king!”

“Long live the king!” chanted the court. Geoff patted his son on the shoulder and they grinned at each other as the court continued to chant. 

“Nice job,” Ross whispered. “Short and sweet and nobody fell asleep.”

“For a change,” Geoff chuckled. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty…”

“Of course.”

Geoff beamed at him, immediately shed his royal jacket and tossed it toward the throne before leaping off the platform with a whoop that was utterly unbecoming of a king, even a retired one. Several ladies of the court squealed in alarm and scuttled away from him as he sprinted through the ballroom and out into the hallway. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court,” he heard Ross announcing behind him. “The king has left the building.”

Geoff ran through the halls, dropping pieces of royal accoutrement as he went: boots, vest, cummerbund, sash. By the time he got to his own dressing room, he was down to pants and shirt, which he had already half-unbuttoned. Antony was waiting for him with a clean tunic and leggings, a pair of soft knee-high riding boots and a wool cloak. “Are you sure this can’t wait until tomorrow?” asked the valet, his voice respectfully miserable.

“Are you kidding?” Geoff snorted as he pulled the boots on. “I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.” He grinned at Antony, then hugged the man tightly. “Take care of my boys, Antony. I trust you with their lives and, more importantly, their appearances.”

“Always, sir,” smiled Antony as he hugged Geoff back. 

“No more,” Geoff admonished, wagging a finger. “Morgan.”

“Morgan,” agreed Antony. “Safe travels.”

“I’ll write when I get there.” He sprinted back out into the hall and didn’t break stride until he had reached the stables. The groomsman was holding a bay stallion, one of the Eastern bred stock that had caught his eye. He launched up onto the horse’s back and the groomsman let him have his head. “Don’t wait up,” Geoff grinned at the man, winked and spurred the stallion out of the stable, through the gates, and out onto the road.

 

***

 

The village couldn’t stop talking about the ball. King Geoff was no longer King Geoff and Prince Ross was king now. Ianthe smiled to herself as she collected her usual supplies: spinach and tomatoes, wheat flour and salt and butter and cream, a dozen eggs this week and some sugar. It was baking day. The news of King Geoff’s abdication had just barely arrived this morning. And Ianthe had been quietly watching the road ever since.

As she settled her things into the house again and tossed a corner of cheese to Ivan, she thought about what had happened in the last week. The king’s men had come to the cabin and retrieved their sovereign. She and the others had slowly traipsed home. She had taken measurements for Elsie’s sweater and color requests for Carla’s twins. 

And life had gone on. Nothing new. Nothing different. Just… normal life.

Ianthe sighed, looking at the flour as she considered if she wanted to start bread now or later. The starter was ready for sourdough and she could at least get the first rise started. Before she could get too far into the thought process, though, someone knocked on her door. Her heart leapt and she went to open it. “Oh. Hello, Evan.”

“Ianthe,” the wool seller said softly. “I… uh, I have something for you.” He held up a sizable bag of black spun wool. “I was holding back some of the black wool for you.” 

“Thank you, Evan,” she smiled gently, “but I’m already over budget for this week as it is.”

“It’s paid for,” he said. His smile was embarrassed, but genuine. He held it out to her and she accepted the bag in confusion. “I could have made you happy, Ianthe,” he said softly, his head down.

“You could have,” Ianthe agreed in an equally soft voice. “In another life.” She reached to squeeze his hand in thanks and then watched him walk back to the market. 

As she was closing the door, she heard hoofbeats.

Hard and fast.

She stopped and opened the door again, leaning out.

An Eastern bred stallion pounded up the road, scaring people out of the way and scattering chickens with impunity. Morgan pulled his horse up short in front of her house and beamed down at her. “Ma’am.”

“Sir,” she beamed up at him. “Lovely horse.”

“He’s for sale, if you’re interested.”

“I suspect I couldn’t afford such a magnificent creature.”

Morgan swung a leg over the horse’s neck and dropped down in front of her, stepping closer. He was better dressed than he had been the first time she had seen him. Not royally, but well. “He’s yours for a kiss,” he whispered to her as he came close. 

“That little, huh?” she replied and gave him a considering smile. Before Morgan could touch her, Ianthe paced around to the horse, checking his feet and pulling his ugly head down to her hand. “High spirited.”

“He’s trained.”

“I’ve heard this line doesn’t have the sense God gave a turnip.”

“He does tend to wander in the cold.”

She paused as the horse snuffled against her hand, seeking the vegetables she had bought earlier. Ianthe smiled and scratched him between the ears. “Is that boot black in his mane?”

“Thought it would make him look younger.”

Ianthe looked back at him and Morgan beamed at her, hopeful. “He doesn’t need to be younger,” she whispered. “Just honest. And willing to work.”

Morgan came closer to her again and stroked one hand down her cheek. “Honest, willing to work, and loves you more than anything.” 

“Mmm, I’ll have to think about it,” Ianthe said, leaning back and putting a finger to her jaw, smirking. “I mean, where would I put a horse?”

“How about the farm I’m going to buy?” he smiled at her. “There’s plenty of room for him, along with a herd of mares and two dozen sheep.”

“Sheep?!” she laughed. “You’re a horse farmer, Morgan. Why do you have sheep?”

“I’m hoping to marry a woman who knits,” he whispered back.

“Is that so?” Ianthe let him draw her close to his chest. She slipped her hands over his shoulders and leaned against him with a slow smile. “Maybe I can recommend one.”

“I was kind of hoping you knew one who was available,” Morgan chuckled, his lips barely brushing hers. “I mean, otherwise, what am I going to do with two dozen sheep?”

“Shut up, Your Majesty,” she whispered, “and kiss me already.”

“I don’t know any majesty around here,” he murmured. “Just a horseman and a knitter.” And his lips pressed against hers in a long kiss warmer than any sunlit summer day.


End file.
